MissionDriven
by fadedelegance
Summary: T for language. When a woman is found dead in her apartment, our favorite cops and prosecutors work to solve the case! Meanwhile, a certain EADA and his partner are finding it difficult to resist the pull toward one another
1. Chapter 1: Discovery

**Disclaimer: Dick Wolf and NBC own "Law and Order". I don't. **

**A/N: Well, here you are, folks. I've done it again. In spite of being a second year grad student working on her thesis and taking a God-awful marketing class with the most insane professor on the face of the earth, I've done it again. I have churned out another fic—and a multi-chapter one, at that. Whew! **

**The title comes from the fact that nonprofit organizations, because they don't have stockholders and exist to serve the public and not to turn a profit, are driven by their mission statements. This fic features a nonprofit that I made up. And no joke—the bar I mention in this story is real. **

**is real, too. (And it's a very handy site, by the way.)**

**I have to say, this was a difficult fic to write. Being a crime fiction writer must be difficult as hell, so I really commend those who do it for a living! Writing this fic was NOT easy, and it's just a fanfic!**

**I hope you all enjoy what I placed between scenes. It's meant to be humorous. :-P**

**This fic is for Jeremy Sisto, Anthony Anderson, S. Epatha Merkerson, Linus Roache, Alana de la Garza, Sam Waterston, my sister Samantha, and June and Angie. –Xxxx Abby **

**Mission-Driven**

Chapter One: Discovery

Two women and one man each hurried out of their respective apartments.

"I'm guessing you two heard it, too?" said one of the women.

"Yeah, I did," said the other woman.

"Are you two going to check on her? I am," said the man.

"Yeah," the women answered simultaneously.

They and the man went up to their neighbor's door, and the man knocked.

"Lucinda? You all right?" he called.

When no reply came, he knocked again.

"Hey Lucinda, it's just Rob, Jamie, and Adriana, we just wanna know if you're all right! You've got us really concerned!" he called.

The three of them waited, but there was no answer.

The man then knocked even harder.

"Lucinda, we just wanna know if you're okay!" one of the women called.

Again, they waited, but again, no response came.

"Do you think we should call her?" the other woman asked.

"I'll go get my phone," said the first woman.

She went into her apartment and hurried out a few moments later with her cell phone. She dialed their neighbor's number.

A few seconds later—

"Voicemail," she said.

"You think she might've left?" asked the other woman.

"I don't know," said the first woman.

"Try calling her again," said the second woman.

A few seconds later—

"Voicemail again," said the first woman.

"What is going on?" said the second woman.

"Hey, guys—the door's unlocked," said the man, who'd made his way over to the door and had opened it ever so slightly.

The women came over to where the man stood at the door. The three of them then exchanged looks, silently agreeing that they should go inside.

The man opened the door wider, and the three of them cautiously entered the apartment.

"Lucinda?" the man called.

No answer.

"Well whoever was here, he's gone now," said the second woman.

When the three of them reached the living room/den—

The second woman gasped.

The first woman said, "Oh my God" the same time the man said, "Son-of-a-bitch".

Lying sprawled across the sofa, like a morbid mockery of a rag doll, was their neighbor. She lay stock still and limp. Her eyes were open, but they were glossed over and saw nothing.

The man turned to the first woman.

"Call 911!"

***DOINK!DOINK!***

Detectives Cyrus Lupo and Kevin Bernard were at the crime scene, along with the usual band of CSU techs, paramedics, and officers.

Of course, the woman was declared dead on arrival.

Bernard left the victim's bedroom, carrying the victim's wallet.

"Lucinda Carlisle—New York issued state I.D.," he announced, holding up the I.D. card he'd gotten from the wallet before placing it back inside the wallet, which he then handed to a nearby CSU tech to bag.

"There's a fire escape out this window," a different CSU tech called to him from across the room. "Killer probably escaped that way."

"Mostly likely, yeah," Bernard called back. "Be sure and dust for prints there really well, all right?"

"Sure thing," the CSU tech replied.

Meanwhile, Lupo was speaking with the women and man who'd found the victim.

"So you three know the victim, is that right?" he asked.

"Yes," said the first woman. "My name is Jamie Masters. I live right next door."

"All right," said Lupo, taking that down on his notepad. "And you two?"

"I'm "Adriana Valdez, I live right across from here," said the second woman.

"I'm Rob Pierce, I live next door to Adriana," said the man.

"Okay," said Lupo, writing that down. "One at a time, could you tell me what you saw, heard, all that? Whatever you can tell us."

Bernard had come over and was listening, as well.

"I have to be at work by eight a.m.," said Jamie. "So I was in bed. But I woke up because I could hear muffled shouting through the wall. I couldn't understand what was being said, but it was obviously a very heated argument. Lucinda was arguing with some guy."

"Is that what you two heard?" Lupo asked Rob and Adriana.

"Yeah," Rob said as Adriana nodded.

"I'd just gone to bed, too," said Adriana. "I'm a teacher, so I have to be up early, too. The arguing woke me up, as well. I could hear the same muffled shouting Jamie could."

Lupo took her statement as she spoke.

"Okay, and you, sir?" he asked Rob.

"I get off work late, so I like to veg out in front of the TV for a little while before I go to bed. That's what I was doing. At first, I couldn't hear anything, but after a while, I heard it, too—the same muffled shouting. I muted my TV and just listened, thinking, 'What the hell?' I should've done something. I should've gotten off my lazy ass and come over here. I probably could've stopped the psycho from killing her," Rob said.

"You don't know that, sir," said Lupo.

"It's called the bystander effect," said Bernard. "Happens to the best of us."

"So have any of you seen this man before?" asked Lupo. "Can you describe him?"

"No," said Adriana, Rob, and Jamie at the same time.

"Have you overheard any other arguments between him and Ms. Carlisle, can you remember? Did she ever talk about him to you?" said Bernard.

Jamie shook her head.

"No," she said.

"Not to me, no," said Adriana.

"Or me," said Rob.

"Have you seen any suspicious-looking men hanging around this apartment? Any men that gave you weird vibes?" asked Lupo.

"Sorry, Detectives—no," said Jamie.

"Me, neither," said Adriana.

"Same here," said Rob.

"Around what time did you start hearing the fighting?" asked Bernard.

"I'd say around ten-thirty," said Jamie.

"That's about what time it was when I looked at my alarm clock," said Adriana.

"That's about what I'd say, too," said Rob. "I get off at ten, and I'd been watching TV for a little while before I started hearing anything."

"Okay," said Lupo, finishing up jotting down their statements.

"Here," said Bernard, handing each of them a copy of his card. "You think of anything else that might be helpful, you just give us a call down at the precinct, all right?"

"Sure thing," said Rob, taking the card he was handed.

"I will, definitely," said Adriana.

"So will I," said Jamie. "You know, there is _one_ thing."

"Yeah?" said Bernard.

"This evening, she was just getting home when I was leaving, and she was on the phone with somebody she was very angry at. They were arguing," Jamie replied.

"Okay," said Lupo, writing that down. "Around what time was that?"

"It was between 5 and 6," said Jamie. "Before I left, I came over here and asked her if she was okay. She said she was—that she just got a, quote, 'very unpleasant phone call'. That's all she said. Obviously, she didn't want to talk about it."

"Okay," said Lupo. "Well, thank you all very much," he then addressed the three of them. "You've been very helpful."

"You have," Bernard agreed. "Again, give us a call if you think of anything."

As he and Lupo left the apartment/crime scene—

"I always love it when nobody can give a description," he said in a bummed-out, sarcastic tone.

"Homicides-r-us," Lupo quipped dryly.

***DOINK!DOINK!***

Office of the Medical Examiner

Manhattan, New York

Friday November 20

"And they say dead men tell no tales," Dr. Rodgers said in her typical dry tone. "Well this gal was talking pretty loudly. The cause of death is asphyxiation from manual strangulation. She has damage to her larynx, trachea, and to the arteries in her neck. X-rays show that he fractured her hyoid. That's a bone in your neck, right here," she said, pointing and using herself as an example. "But the dead giveaway may or may not be the red marks and bruises on her neck."

"I'm glad we always see each other under such pleasant circumstances," Bernard quipped.

"Yeah," Dr. Rodgers went along. "And I've got a date tonight."

"Is he dead or alive?" Lupo joked, smirking.

"Tee hee," Dr. Rodgers replied flatly.

As Lupo and Bernard left the room—

"Tough crowd," Lupo muttered.

Bernard snorted and shook his head, though he had a small smile on his face.


	2. Chapter 2: Good Teams

***DOINK!DOINK!***

Chapter Two: Good Teams

The Manhattan District Attorney's Office

One Hogan Place Centre Street

Manhattan, New York

Friday November 20

Connie's heart pounded as she rode the elevator up to the floor where she worked.

Yesterday had been one hell of an emotional roller coaster. But talk about a satisfying victory. They'd finally gotten the son-of-a-bitch. They'd finally gotten Marcus Woll. Ever since Mike had found out about her history with Woll—or rather, ever since Woll had rubbed it in his face—the look in his eyes told Connie that he was in it for her. Connie found that flattering, humbling, and romantic.

She'd thoroughly enjoyed Mike's recap of how he'd secretly recorded Woll.

She didn't want to admit it to anyone but herself and Mike how damn good this victory felt. Woll had been so arrogant, complacent, and smug—so certain that they had no case against him—and they'd gotten him. They'd beaten the prick at his own game. And not only was he going to be disbarred—he was going to prison for the rest of his life. Talk about a fall from grace.

And if she could, Connie would have made it happen all over again—with Mike's help, of course.

Karma hadn't come knocking at Woll's door—it had broken the damn thing down.

God, this felt so good.

And ever since she'd watched Woll being led away in handcuffs, Mike was all she could think about.

How could Jack think her working with him could _ever_ be a problem?

That wasn't even possible.

Why would she have a problem working with Mike?

Mike, who hadn't treated her any differently after learning about her unfortunate history with Woll; Mike, who hadn't judged her for it; Mike, who'd worked harder on this case than she'd ever seen him work—which was saying something because he had a hell of a work ethic as it was—and had done so for her; Mike, who respected her, who understood what she was worth, who loved her just as she was…who made her feel a way she'd never felt before in her life…

A problem? Jack couldn't be more off-base.

All of a sudden, the elevator gave a 'ding!', signaling her arrival on her floor.

Her heart gave a sort of jolt in her chest and began to race again.

Any moment now, and she would see him…

She stepped off the elevator and took a deep breath before walking to her office. She unlocked the door and entered the room, hanging up her coat.

She took another deep breath and then went to Mike's office, briefcase in hand, closing the door behind her.

Mike looked up as she entered the room and stood up immediately, making Connie melt.

They met one another's gaze.

"Hi," Connie said softly.

"Hi," Mike returned, the same way.

They looked at each other for a moment.

Mike had a tie on, but he'd already rolled up his sleeves. It was breezy that day, so his sandy hair was a bit tousled. Connie hoped he would leave it that way. It just emphasized how boyishly good-looking he was.

"You must feel so relieved," he said. "I bet you slept very well last night."

"I did," Connie said, nodding. "And you're right—I _am_ relieved…You know, Mike, you're the only one I feel comfortable telling this to, but that victory yesterday? It felt good… I can't help but think that…"

"It's okay," Mike said tenderly. "God, Connie, who can blame you for feeling that way?...You know…I almost called you last night…"

"I almost called you, too…" Connie admitted.

"Really?" Mike asked, pleasantly surprised.

"Yeah…" Connie said softly.

They looked at each other for a moment.

"Mike—thank you," Connie then said sincerely. "Thank you so much. I couldn't have gotten Woll without your help."

"Connie, I have to disagree," Mike said tenderly. "You're giving me too much credit. You're the one who stuck your neck out by naming yourself a co-conspirator. You're the reason that son-of-a-bitch is going to prison for life—not me…You know—I understand why you put yourself on the line like that. But I never liked it…"

"Mike, there was no other way," Connie said bracingly. "You know—I can be just as stubborn as you," she then added with a bantering smile.

At that, Mike smiled sweetly, displaying his dimples.

Connie melted, feeling her breath catch in her throat.

"Now I have to disagree," she then said. "Mike, we got the son-of-a-bitch together…Further proof that we make a great team…Mike—I'm glad you were the one I was working the case with."

Mike melted.

Connie could tell by the expression on his boyishly handsome face how much that meant to him to hear her say that.

He walked around his desk, so there wasn't anything between them. They stood face-to-face. For a moment, they just looked at one another.

Then, Mike did something he'd never done before.

He stepped closer to her and wrapped her in his arms, embracing her tightly. After a moment of initial surprise, Connie put her arms around him and rested her head against his shoulder. The two of them stayed like that for a little while.

After a bit, they drew apart slightly and looked at one another, silently agreeing.

They leaned in toward each other, so close to sharing their first kiss, when suddenly—

Mike's Blackberry beeped, alerting him that he'd received a text message.

They both looked disappointed as they let go of each other.

Mike went over to his desk, picked up his Blackberry, and read the message.

"It's from Lupo—just letting us know we caught a new case. A woman was strangled to death in her apartment," he said.

"All right," Connie said in a businesslike tone.

"And here I was thinking he was gonna ask me to join him and Bernard for another beer," Mike half-joked.

At Connie's pleasantly surprised expression, he said, "Everyone needs a drinking buddy or two, don't they?"

Connie smiled.

"I completely agree," she said. "So—shall we start our work day then?"

"Yeah," said Mike.

Their eyes met, and Mike took a moment to lovingly caress her face with his free hand.

The two of them exchanged tender smiles, and then Mike said, in reference to all the appeals against Woll's convictions that they'd been slammed with, "Well—the Appellate Division calls."

"That it does," Connie said with a smile.

***DOINK! DOINK!***

Apartment of Henry and Diana Crawford

Manhattan, New York

Monday November 23

Lucinda's mother sat on the sofa, and her father stood with his hand on his wife's shoulder.

Mrs. Crawford sighed heavily and put her face in her hands.

"Oh God…" she whispered, barely understandable.

Mr. Crawford then sat down next to her and placed his arm around her shoulders.

"We hate to have to grill you about this," Lupo said to them grimly, "but did your daughter have any enemies? Any confrontations with anyone recently? Was anyone harassing her, or...?"

Mrs. Crawford wiped her eyes on her sleeve and said, "She had a good amount of friends…Our family is stable…She got along with the people she worked with…But, um—but her love life, that—that's a different story…"

"She have a boyfriend?" asked Lupo.

"No," Mr. Crawford spoke up. "But she had a real prick for a husband. They were going through a really bitter divorce. The bastard brought it on himself by cheating on her, yet he had the audacity to act like our daughter was the problem!"

"Did he ever threaten her?" asked Bernard. "Was he abusive in any way?"

"No," said Mrs. Crawford, "but he was definitely a narcissistic ass. Henry and I will never know what Lucy saw in him…"

"They have some pretty heated arguments, then?" asked Lupo.

"Yeah," Mrs. Crawford replied. "Ever since she found out about the bastard's affair, it seemed like all they did was argue. Judging by what Lucy told us, things were hostile between them…That prick…I bet that wasn't even the first time he cheated on her—I wouldn't put it past him. Like I said—he's a narcissistic ass. And when Lucy filed for divorce, she bruised his ego…"

"My wife is right," Mr. Crawford said. "You want to find the man who killed our daughter, Detectives? Why don't you look into that son-of-a-bitch she married?"

***DOINK!DOINK!***

N.Y.P.D. 27th Precinct

One Police Plaza

Manhattan, New York

Monday November 23

Lupo and Bernard sat at their desks, discussing the case.

"So the parents say she married a real winner," Lupo said darkly.

He and Bernard were updating Lt. Van Buren.

"Fifty percent of us do," Van Buren said bleakly, alluding to herself.

There came an uncomfortable pause.

"Was there a lot of animosity there?" Van Buren then asked.

"According to Mrs. Carlisle's parents, yes," said Bernard. "Hey, Lupes, remember what her next door neighbor said? That Lucinda was arguing with someone on the phone between five and six?"

"Yeah," said Lupo. "I say we pull her phone records and then have a chat with prince charming."

"Well, pull her phone records, but talk to her divorce attorney first," said Van Buren. "Find out how much of prince charming's castle she was asking for," she quipped with a small smile.

Lupo and Bernard both gave amused smiles.


	3. Chapter 3: Love and Litigation

***DOINK!DOINK!***

Chapter Three: Love and Litigation

The law office of Nelson Bryce

Queens, New York

Tuesday November 24

As Lupo and Bernard made their way up to Bryce's office—

"Isn't this the guy with the cheesy firm commercials?" Lupo muttered, smirking.

Bernard chuckled.

"I think so," he murmured.

When they reached Bryce's office—

"Detectives!" Bryce greeted them in a pompous, cheery tone. "How can I help out New York's finest?"

"We're here in regards to one of your clients—Lucinda Carlisle," said Lupo.

"Oh yes—talk about a heated case," said Bryce. "And seeing as how I specialize in divorces, that's saying something. Thank God there aren't kids involved…"

"Well, Counselor, let's just say your workload just got lighter—Lucinda Carlisle is dead," said Bernard. "Someone choked her to death in her apartment."

"What the hell?" said Bryce, taken aback. "Wow…God damn…"

"Yeah," said Lupo.

"We were wondering if you could tell us more about the Carlisles' divorce," said Bernard. "We heard from Mrs. Carlisle's parents that it was bitter. You seem to agree. You mind telling us just how bitter 'bitter' is?"

Bryce sighed.

"Well, Lucinda filed for divorce in the first place because she found out her husband was cheating," he said. "Not to brag, but I've got quite a reputation for being a real shark—getting my clients exactly what they should get. She told me she'd seen my commercials, so that's how I ended up taking her case."

"I take it she was asking for as much as she could possibly get," said Lupo.

"She was, yes," said Bryce.

"How much were you two asking for?" said Bernard.

Bryce went over to his desk, took a pencil and a piece of paper from a memo pad, wrote down a figure, and then handed the paper to Bernard, who whistled in surprise when he read it.

"That's definitely enough to piss somebody off," said Lupo, reading the figure.

"Yeah, no doubt," said Bernard. "Well—that sure would get to lover boy, wouldn't it?"

"Definitely," Lupo agreed.

"Hey—I was just doing what Lucinda told me to do," said Bryce.

"Not what you _persuaded_ her to do?" asked Bernard.

"Hey, she sought _me_ out," said Bryce. "She told me everything that rat bastard put her through, and she said she really wanted to get him. We just happened to be on the same page is all. I do what I believe is in my clients' best interests. Believe it or not, a lot of them agree with me! She told me, and I quote, that she 'hated the bastard for what he did to her' and that she 'really wanted to get him and make him pay—literally'."

"All right," said Bernard. "So just to be sure and cover our bases, where were you last Thursday night between ten and eleven?"

"Whoa—why would I kill Lucinda Carlisle? What'd she ever do to me?" said Bryce.

"Well, that's what we're trying to find out—why anyone would want to kill her," said Lupo. "So—your whereabouts, Thursday night between ten and eleven."

"Well, you guys know how it is—thirsty Thursday and all," said Bryce. "I went out for a drink with the guys—this bar called Brass Monkey."

"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" Bernard said, clapping Bryce on the arm.

As he and Lupo turned to leave—

"Oh—Detectives?" said Bryce.

Lupo and Bernard stopped and turned to him.

"I should tell you something else Lucinda said to me. Something else that's a testament to how much spite there was between her and her husband," said Bryce.

"Yeah?" said Bernard.

"She told me to, quote, 'milk the son-of-a-bitch for everything he's worth," said Bryce.

***DOINK!DOINK!***

Brass Monkey

55 Little West 12th Street

Manhattan, New York

Tuesday November 24

Lupo and Bernard approached the counter, where the bartender was rinsing some glasses.

He looked up when they arrived.

"Hi. What can I get you guys?" he asked.

"Hopefully some information," said Bernard.

"N.Y.P.D.," said Lupo, as he and Bernard showed the bartender their badges. "Have you seen this guy in here? Was he here last week?" he added, holding up a photo of Nelson Bryce.

The bartender chuckled.

"That divorce lawyer with the cheesy firm commercials? Yeah, he was in here. He and his buddies are in here every week," he said.

"Do they come here every week on a certain day, or does it vary?" asked Bernard.

"Oh, they're always in here on Thursdays. That's when we have what we call our Thirsty Thursday Special. All domestic and imported beers are half price from open to close," the bartender elaborated.

"You remember what time they were here?" Lupo asked.

"They were here late…um…let's see…I think it was ten-fifteen, ten-thirty. It was some time after ten—I don't quite remember," said the bartender.

"All right—thanks," said Lupo.

***DOINK!DOINK!***

N.Y.P.D. 27th Precinct

One Police Plaza

Manhattan, New York

Tuesday November 24

Lupo and Bernard were at their desks when Lt. Van Buren came up to them.

"How's it going?" she asked them, obviously referring to the case.

"Well, Shyster McGee is off the hook—his alibi checks out," Lupo replied with a snicker.

Bernard chuckled.

"What'd he say about the divorce?" asked Van Buren, traces of a smile on her face.

"He reaffirmed what Lucinda's parents said. Things were pretty hostile between Lucinda and her husband," Bernard answered. "He told us that Lucinda 'hated' her husband for cheating on her, that she 'wanted to make him pay—literally', and that she wanted Bryce to help her 'milk the son-of-a-bitch for everything he's worth'."

"Happy times," Van Buren commented sarcastically.

"No kidding," said Bernard. "Here's how much she and Bryce were asking for," he added, taking out of his pocket the piece of paper on which Bryce had written Lucinda's desired settlement amount and handing it to Van Buren.

"Damn," said Van Buren after reading it. "Maybe I should've hired this guy," she half-joked.

"I'm liking the husband for this more and more," said Lupo. "I mean, think about it—the courts usually side with the wife in divorce proceedings, and this guy wasn't doing himself any favors by cheating on her. Plus, if Mr. Big Shot's as good as he says he is, Lucinda was gonna pick the guy's pockets. Add to all of that the animosity between them, and you've got one hell of a motive."

"Well then, you'll like this," said Van Buren. "The CSU reports are in. You know that window in Lucinda's apartment that's near the fire escape? Well, CSU managed to lift some prints off the sill. Some were matched to the victim, and some weren't in our system, so we'll get to those later. But there were some prints that _are_ in our system. And guess who they belong to?"

Lupo nodded, catching on, a satisfied smile on his face.

"And you'll like _this_," Bernard said to Van Buren.

He held up some documents that were paper-clipped together.

"These are Lucinda's phone records. Guess who she was arguing with over the phone the day she was murdered?"


	4. Chapter 4: The Charming Mr Carlisle

Chapter Four: The Charming Mr. Carlisle

N.Y.P.D. 27th Precinct

Interrogation Room

Friday November 27

Lupo and Bernard were in the interrogation room with Lucinda's husband Vance and his attorney George Preston, while Connie and Van Buren stood outside, watching through the glass and listening.

"Why'd you bring me down here?" asked Carlisle. "Couldn't we have done this at my apartment?"

"Relax, Vance, they're just trying to intimidate you," drawled Preston.

"Sorry you're not enjoying our hospitality," said Bernard. "But you see, we've got a problem, Mr. Carlisle." He held up Lucinda's phone records. "These are your wife's phone records."

"And they show that you called her at 5:27 p.m., roughly five hours before she was strangled to death in her apartment," said Lupo. "Her neighbor told us Lucinda was arguing with the person she was on the phone with around that time. Now we also know that you and Lucinda were going through a nasty divorce—and that she was asking for a pretty big settlement."

"There was a lot of bad blood between you two, and she wanted to put a huge dent in your bank account," said Bernard.

"She had you pegged for infidelity, and the courts tend to side with the wife in divorce cases," Lupo said. "You must've been pretty damn livid."

"Yeah, I won't lie, I hated the bitch, but I didn't kill her!" Carlisle said.

"See, here's what we think happened," said Bernard. "We think that argument you and your wife had over the phone was your breaking point. She just pushed you and pushed you until you finally snapped. So you bided your time for a few hours, and then you paid her a visit at her apartment. You argued some more, and then all that hatred, all that pent-up rage just burst right out of you."

"So you grabbed a hold of her neck, and you wrung the hell out of it," said Lupo.

"Until she wasn't breathing anymore—until she was dead," said Bernard.

"You're wrong—I _didn't kill_ her!" Carlisle insisted angrily.

"Really?" Lupo said skeptically. "Care to tell us where you were Thursday November 19 between ten and eleven p.m.?"

"I was at home in my apartment in bed!" Carlisle answered. "Yes, I argued with Lucinda earlier that evening over the phone, and yes it was a very heated argument, but damn it, I did _not_ kill her!"

"Well you see, here's where we hit another snag, Mr. Carlisle. Your prints were all over your wife's apartment—including on the sill of the window near the fire escape," said Bernard. "How do we know they're your prints? Because fifteen years ago, you did some time for possession. Your prints are in the system."

"Smoking a few joints in college doesn't make me a murderer!" Carlisle said.

"And neither does anything else you have on him," Preston spoke up smugly. "So you've got a record of a phone call. Divorcing partners argue over the phone all the time. The fact that it happened hours before she was killed? Pure coincidence. Oh—and there's an explanation for the prints, too. You see, before my client's wife filed for divorce and kicked him out, the two of them lived in that apartment together. Tenants open and close their windows all the time. So unless you have magic time stamps for all of those prints, you have nothing solid to use against my client. And that, gentlemen, is what we call circumstantial evidence. Well, darn—there went your case."

From the other side of the glass—

"Unfortunately, he's right," Connie said to Van Buren. "Everything we've got on him is circumstantial. We can't charge him. No judge would let it stick. Sorry, Anita. My hands are tied."

"Hey—we've been through this scenario before, right?" said Van Buren with a small smile.

Connie smiled.

"We'll get him or whoever it was," said Van Buren.

Connie nodded.

"You're right," she said.

As she turned to go—

"Connie?" said Van Buren.

Connie turned to her.

"Jack said you handled yourself very well on the stand during Woll's trial. I never got to commend you for that," Van Buren said kindly.

"You're the one who's been fighting cancer. You're the one who deserves to be commended," Connie said warmly.

"Thank you, Connie," Van Buren said, deeply moved.

Connie smiled again.

"Of course," she said. "Keep me posted."

With that, she left the precinct.

***DOINK! DOINK!***

The Manhattan District Attorney's Office

One Hogan Place Centre Street

Manhattan, New York

Friday November 27

Connie entered Mike's office, holding a drink carrier that was holding two warm, fresh Starbucks beverages.

"Hi!" Mike said, lighting up as he usually did whenever she entered the room.

"Hi!" Connie returned happily, closing the door behind her.

"Is one of those drinks for me?" Mike asked.

"No," Connie bantered light-heartedly with a smile. "You have to sit here and watch me drink both of them."

Mike smiled, and she winked at him, feeling a rush of the butterflies.

"Here," she then said, handing him his drink. "You look like you could use a pick-me-up, so I got you your favorite," she added, handing him the triple grande caramel latte she'd bought for him.

"Thank you," Mike said sweetly, taking it.

"You're welcome," Connie said warmly.

She then extracted her drink—a tall nonfat caramel macchiato—from the drink carrier, which she then threw away in Mike's trashcan.

"How'd it go at the precinct?" Mike asked, taking a sip of his latte. "We already know it's not the divorce attorney—Nelson Bryce. He has an alibi that checks out."

"Right," said Connie. "You know, I've been thinking—isn't he the guy with the cheesy firm commercials?"

"'Show the courts you mean business'?" Mike quoted with an adorable smirk.

Connie laughed.

"Yes!" she said. "Those!"

Mike snickered.

Suddenly, there came a knock at the door, and Jack came in.

"How's it going?" he asked them.

"Very well," said Mike. "We're talking about the Carlisle case."

"I just got back from the 2-7," said Connie. "Lupo and Bernard have already ruled out the divorce attorney, as you already know, and they thought they had a case against the husband."

"Thought?" said Jack.

"Well—yeah," Connie replied with a sigh. "But everything they have on him? All circumstantial."

She then relayed to Mike and Jack all the details of Lupo and Bernard's questioning of Lucinda's husband.

"Well," said Jack, "when we hit a dead end, we don't give up. We backtrack and take a different route."


	5. Chapter 5: Digging Deeper

Chapter Five: Digging Deeper

Subway

90 Worth Street

Manhattan, New York

Tuesday December 1

Lupo, Bernard, Connie, and Mike decided to have lunch together to talk about the Carlisle case.

When they went to sit down at a booth, Mike stood back chivalrously so Connie could sit down first. She gave him a grateful smile and did so. Lupo took a step toward her side of the booth, but Mike sat down next to her first.

"Oh," Lupo muttered awkwardly.

He then sat down next to Bernard.

After the four of them started in on their lunches—

"Damn," said Bernard, swallowing a bite of his sandwich. "There went the best lead we had."

"I still think he did it," Lupo said. "Who else had motive?"

"Have you found anything new that could be used against him?" Mike asked.

"Unfortunately, no. but that doesn't mean we won't eventually find something," said Lupo. "Again—who else had motive? Just because all the evidence was circumstantial, that doesn't mean he isn't guilty. Look at Marcus Woll. The case against that sleazebag was challenging, but we still got him in the end, right?"

"That's true," said Connie, glancing at Mike.

"But we're obviously missing something," said Lupo. "Or maybe we're not—maybe that's it, and he'll just walk. After all, shit happens. We can't always save the day. But I prefer not to believe that's what's going on here."

"I think we're missing something," said Bernard.

"So let's widen the scope of the investigation," said Mike. "This guy sounds like a real prick—maybe he hired someone to kill his wife _for_ him."

"It's a definite possibility," said Bernard.

"Let's look into his finances," said Connie. "Large withdrawals and wire transfers are major red flags when it comes to hired hits."

***DOINK!DOINK***

N.Y.P.D. 27th Precinct

Manhattan, New York

Friday December 4

Lupo and Bernard sat at their desks, going over Vance Carlisle's financial records, which they'd divided in half between themselves.

"Hmm…There are some several-hundred-dollar payments, but they're all legal fees, bills…Nothing suspicious-looking here," said Lupo.

He rubbed his forehead.

"You see any statements or anything for any off-shore banks?" he asked. "I don't. Just a bunch of statements and stuff for a checking account and a savings account, both from Bank of America."

"Yeah, same here," said Bernard. "Financials—hours and hours of endless amusement."

"Yeah," Lupo agreed dryly.

A few hours later—

"How's it going, guys?" asked Van Buren, coming over to check on them.

Bernard sighed as Lupo swallowed a drink of coffee.

"We've gone over everything with a fine-toothed comb," said Bernard. "We haven't found anything to suggest a hired hit—no suspicious-looking withdrawals or wire transfers into other accounts…nothing."

"At first, we thought that, with his middle-class salary—between fifty and eighty thousand as an associate professor—he wouldn't be able to afford it, but, you know, covering our bases and all that. I mean, some people change jobs, some people invest, but it doesn't look like this guy did either one," said Lupo.

He then tried unsuccessfully to suppress a yawn.

"I think it's past somebody's bed time," Bernard quipped, smirking.

"Ha ha," said Lupo, although he was smiling.

Van Buren smirked.

"Look, I'm heading out, and I suggest you two do the same," she said. "Especially you, Sleeping Beauty," she added to Lupo. "On Monday, we'll get Connie and Cutter all caught up. Goodnight, guys."

"Goodnight, Lu," Lupo and Bernard said in unison.

***DOINK!DOINK!***

The Manhattan District Attorney's Office

One Hogan Place

Manhattan, New York

Monday December 7

Connie had barely taken her files and her laptop out of her briefcase and was on her way to Mike's office when her phone rang. She tucked her files and her laptop under her arm and then answered it.

"Connie Rubirosa…Hey, Bernard…Good, you?...Okay…"

She entered Mike's office and smiled at him in greeting.

He smiled back at her.

"All right…" Connie said, listening as Bernard updated her. "Okay, so back to the drawing board, then…That sounds great, keep us posted…All right, great…You, too…'Bye."

"Good morning," Mike said warmly.

"Good morning, Mike," Connie returned kindly. "That was Bernard. In regards to the Carlisle case, Mr. Carlisle has been eliminated as a suspect. Nothing in his financials suggests he hired a hitman. So he, Lupo, and Van Buren are going to go over everything again to see if there's anything we all missed the first time. For the record, I definitely think there was."

"Yeah," Mike agreed. "Watch, we'll find out it's been staring us in the face the whole time. Wasn't it Sherlock Holmes who said that sometimes, the most obvious things are the ones that are the most difficult to find?"

Connie smiled.

"Elementary, my dear Cutter," she bantered flirtatiously.

Mike smiled at her, his dimples on full display.

Connie's smile broadened.

What she wouldn't have given just to wrap him in her arms right then and there. She didn't know it, but Mike was thinking the exact same thing about her.

Just then, there came a knock at the door.

"Come in!" Mike and Connie called at the same time.

One of the interns for the homicide division entered the room.

"Morning, Mr. Cutter—Miss Rubirosa!" she said cheerfully.

"Hi!" Connie said the same time as Mike said, "Morning!"

"Miss Rubirosa, I got the subpoena for the Roderick case all finished," said the intern, handing Connie the document she was holding. "So if you could look it over and all that, that'd be great. I'd really appreciate it."

"Of course!" Connie said. "I'm sure you did a great job, Karen!"

"Thanks!" Karen said brightly. "Hey," she suddenly added. "You guys match. His tie matches your sweater."

Mike and Connie glanced at each other. Indeed, Karen was right. The dark maroon of Mike's tie was identical to the dark maroon of Connie's sweater.

"That's funny—in a cute way," Karen said. "So you'll get back to me, then, about the subpoena?"

"Absolutely," Connie said kindly. "I'll text you, all right?"

"Okay!" Karen said brightly. "Have a great day, Miss Rubirosa—Mr. Cutter!"

"You, too, Karen!" Connie and Mike said the same time.

After Karen left—

Mike turned to Connie.

"Hey—about matching: call me next time, so we can plan it. I don't want to be caught off-guard again," he said with a very endearing smirk.

Connie laughed.

"Yeah, I'll be sure and do that, Mike!" she said, smiling.

Mike smiled at her again.

They held each other's gaze for a moment, then—

"Well—" Connie said, breaking their eye contact by looking down so that he wouldn't see her blushing.

She then opened her file on the Carlisle case.

"So, like I said before—going back to square one to see what we're missing. So," she said, consulting the file, "We only looked at her home life and her husband, which obviously got us nowhere…"

"Right," said Mike. "And Nelson Bryce and his firm commercials are in the clear."

"Mmhm," said Connie. "As are the parents."

"How much have Lupo and Bernard looked into her friends? She could have had an enemy we don't know about," Mike said. "A friend could offer some insight into that."

"True," said Connie.

She picked up her Android and dialed the 2-7.

"Hey, it's Connie," she said. "Have you guys looked into Lucinda Carlisle's friends?...Okay, cool…Oh, all right, great…Okay. You guys have a good one…All right…'Bye!"

"What'd they say?" Mike asked.

"They're way ahead of us," Connie replied. "They're going to go talk to Lucinda's parents again—see if they can give us any useful information about their daughter's social life."

"What about her work life?" asked Mike.

"See, I've been wondering about that, too," said Connie. "Look," she said, showing Mike the specific file on Lucinda. "It says here that she worked for That's a Wrap Theatre Company. That's a nonprofit organization. Now, I remember from my White Collar Bureau days that the typical nonprofit employee doesn't make very much money. It's the whole public servant thing. Now let's look up how much money That's a Wrap spent on staff compensation last year."

Mike followed her over to the table in his office where the two of them often sat and worked.

Connie got on her laptop, and, as he always did when this was the case, Mike stood in close proximity to her and looked over her shoulder. (Of course, Connie didn't mind at all how close he was.)

"?" Mike asked curiously.

"Yeah. It's a database nonprofits can register themselves on if they want. It's like a directory," Connie explained. "Let's see if That's a Wrap Theatre Company is registered."

She typed 'That's a Wrap Theatre Company' into the search bar on the site and waited.

"Oh good, here it is!" she then said.

Her heart began to race when Mike leaned in a little closer.

"All right, let's pull up their Form 990s—those are forms you don't need a subpoena for. They're public information. Since nonprofits are tax exempt, they file 990s with the IRS instead. They'll tell us the organization's major expenses, including how much they spent on employee compensation," she said. "All right…" she muttered, perusing That's a Wrap's most recent Form 990s. "Oh, here we go—they list nine employees…" She scrolled down carefully for a bit. "Here we go," she then said. "So looking at their expenses, it says they spent about two hundred fifty thousand dollars on employee compensation. Do the math, and Lucinda, as an employee who wasn't top management, would have had a salary of roughly twenty-eight thousand."

"Yeah…So what are you getting at?" Mike asked, intrigued.

"Well, Nelson Bryce and his firm—however cheesy the commercials—are some of the most prestigious divorce attorneys in the city, aren't they?" said Connie.

"Yeah," said Mike.

"Mike, with her pay, how was Lucinda affording him? That's been bothering me for a while. It just…doesn't make any sense to me," said Connie.

"Yeah, me neither. That's strange," Mike said pensively.

"You think it's worth looking into? I mean, we don't have any leads," said Connie.

"You're right. I think it _is_ worth looking into," said Mike.

Connie dialed the 2-7 again.

"Hey, Lupo, it's Connie again, sorry to bother you guys so much…Well, Mike and I are wondering: does it strike you and Bernard as odd that someone with Lucinda's income could afford a high-end attorney like Nelson Bryce?...Okay, good. I'll be down at the precinct as soon as I can with a subpoena for her bank records. Go over them as thoroughly as you can, and get back to us…All right, thanks, Lupo…'Bye."

"I bet you're onto something," Mike complimented her.

"Here's hoping," said Connie.


	6. Chapter 6: Everyone Loves a Paper Trail

Chapter Six: Everyone Loves a Paper Trail

The Manhattan District Attorney's Office

One Hogan Place Centre Street

Manhattan, New York

Monday December 14

Mike, Connie, Lupo, and Bernard were all in Mike's office.

Mike was sitting at his desk. Lupo and Bernard stood, while Connie sat on the edge of Mike's desk, holding Mike's favorite old, worn baseball.

"So we spoke with Lucinda's closest friends. They knew all about the divorce, but according to them, Lucinda didn't have any enemies. We even spoke to her husband again. He couldn't think of anyone, either," Lupo said.

"What about Lucinda's financials?" asked Connie, absentmindedly tossing the baseball into her other hand. "Anything?"

"Now here's where it gets weird," said Bernard. "Her bank records show that she made some large deposits into her checking account. The bank said they were cash deposits, and they weren't made at regular intervals, But if you add them up—the total is over three thousand dollars. We also saw that she was signed up for direct deposit from the theater company, so of course, her paychecks were automatically placed in her account—obviously labeled and at regular intervals. We think the situation with the cash is weird because we talked to her friends and parents, and they all said they weren't lending her money. Any money she would've received from a bank would've been in the form of a check, so she wasn't getting any money from a bank loan."

"We also contacted a few local businesses that loan money to people between paychecks," said Lupo. "None of them had Lucinda as a client."

"Well, _that's_ not weird at all," Mike said sarcastically.

"No kidding," said Lupo.

"What do you think, Connie?" Mike asked.

"I think it's strange, too," Connie replied. "In fact, I wonder…" she added.

"Wonder what?" asked Lupo.

"Mike, would you hand me the file on Lucinda?" Connie asked.

Mike did so, and she thanked him.

Connie opened the file and perused it for a moment.

"It says here that she was a development officer," said Connie. "That means she was a fundraiser. I had to look that up for one of my white collar cases once."

"So what're you wondering?" asked Lupo.

"I'm wondering if she was stealing from the organization," Connie replied. "I mean, we don't know where those cash deposits came from, and she was living beyond her means because she had high-end Nelson Bryce as her divorce lawyer. It all fits."

"How would she have taken the money?" Lupo asked.

"My guess is that when donors gave her checks, she kept them for herself and then went to the bank and pretended she was authorized to endorse them on behalf of the organization," said Connie. "That happens with fraud."

"I bet you're right, Connie," Mike said. "And I bet that's why she was murdered."


	7. Chapter 7: That's a Wrap Theatre Company

Chapter Seven: That's a Wrap Theatre Company

That's a Wrap Theatre Company

Manhattan, New York

Tuesday December 15

When Lupo and Bernard entered the building, the administrative assistant greeted them.

"Hi! I'm Kendall. What can I do for you gentlemen?" she asked.

"Hi," Lupo returned. "N.Y.P.D.," he said, as he and Bernard showed her their badges. "I'm Detective Lupo, this is Detective Bernard. We're investigating the murder of your co-worker."

Kendall sighed.

"God, poor Lucinda," she said. "It's just horrible…"

"Yeah, it's pretty bad," Lupo agreed. "Is your boss here today?"

"Yeah, he is," said Kendall. "Follow me, I'll take you to his office."

Lupo and Bernard did so, and she led them to the office of the executive director.

She knocked on the door, which was slightly ajar already, and opened it further.

"Steve, the N.Y.P.D. is here to see you—it's about Lucinda," she said.

"All right," said the executive director. "Thanks, Kendall."

Kendall nodded and then left.

Lupo and Bernard entered the room and introduced themselves.

"Afternoon, Detectives. I'm Steve Cochran, I'm the executive director here," said Cochran, shaking hands with both of them. "So you've been investigating Lucinda's murder?"

"Yes," said Bernard.

"God, the whole thing is just terrible," Cochran said sadly. "I was told someone choked her to death?"

"Yes, that's how she died," said Lupo.

"Christ…" said Cochran, shaking his head. "She was a good worker—a very good worker. Very good at what she did. We're really gonna miss her around here."

"We know she was a development officer here," said Bernard.

"Yes. She and our other development officer Alexis worked with our donor base, solicited funds, applied for grants, collaborated with our two marketing staffers, stuff like that. Again, she was a very good worker. A few months ago, she got us a nice grant. The timing was great, too."

"What do you mean?" asked Bernard.

"Well—money's tight around here," Cochran replied. "It's been rough on us lately. Ask our accountant Derek—he'll tell you…You know, I would've liked to have given Lucinda a raise, but that's up to the board of directors, not me."

"Mr. Cochran, did Lucinda get along all right with everyone here?" Bernard asked.

"Oh yeah, absolutely. Everyone gets along great here, as far as I know. I mean, we're not best pals or anything, but yeah, we get along," Cochran replied.

"So no hostility between her and anyone else here?" said Lupo.

"No, not to my knowledge," said Cochran.

"Mr. Cochran, we're going to have to speak with some of the other staffers, just a heads-up," said Lupo.

"Of course, whatever you need," said Cochran.

"Mr. Cochran, where were you Thursday November 19 between ten and eleven p.m.?" asked Bernard.

"I arrived in Atlantic City around eight. I attended an arts administrators' conference there on Friday and Saturday, and I drove back on Sunday," Cochran replied. "I have confirmation emails with contact information for the organization that held the conference and for my hotel. I made reservations for both online. Let me print them off for you."

"That'd be great, thanks," said Lupo.

Cochran then printed off the confirmation emails, which he then handed to Bernard.

"All right, then, thank you, Mr. Cochran," Bernard said, taking them.

"Of course," said Cochran.

Lupo and Bernard then left his office.

As they walked down the hall—

"I don't think he's our guy," Lupo murmured.

"Me neither," Bernard muttered. "You've got the list of all the staffers with you, right?"

"Yeah," Lupo said, still keeping his voice down.

"How many men work here?" Bernard asked. "Remember, the neighbors all said they heard Lucinda arguing with a man."

Lupo had taken the list out of his pocket.

"Right…Three, including Cochran," he replied.

They walked down the hallway and stopped at an office door with a name plate on it that said 'Derek Fletcher Staff Accountant'.

Bernard knocked.

"Yeah?" Fletcher said curtly, answering the door.

"Mr. Fletcher, N.Y.P.D.," said Bernard, as he and Lupo showed him their badges.

"We're here about Lucinda Carlisle," said Lupo.

"God, that whole thing is horrible," said Fletcher, shaking his head. "Are you at all close to finding out who killed her?"

"We're pretty sure we're getting there, yeah," said Bernard. "Mr. Fletcher, where were you Thursday November 19 between ten and eleven p.m.?"

"I was at home asleep," Fletcher replied. "In my apartment—or, as I like to call it, my bachelor pad," he quipped.

"All right," said Lupo. "Did you know Lucinda very well?"

Fletcher shrugged.

"Not that well—just that she worked really hard. We'd greet each other coming in and out of the office. She and Alexis would give me records of the money they raised, and since I do all the bookkeeping for the organization, I would record all contributions they took in. We only had a business relationship," he replied.

"Mr. Fletcher, you're obviously an accountant," said Bernard.

"Yes, I'm a CPA," said Fletcher.

"Have you noticed anything that seems off about the books lately as you've been managing them? Has anything not been adding up?" Bernard asked. "According to your boss, the organization has been having some money problems lately."

"Well…yes, we have, unfortunately," said Fletcher. "The recession's really done a number on us. We just have to hope our donors really step up to the plate, you know?"

"Yeah," said Lupo. "Well—we'll let you get back to work, then." 

"All right," said Fletcher. "Detectives?"

"Yeah?" said Bernard.

"What does our lack of funds have to do with Lucinda Carlisle's death?" Fletcher asked.

"Well, Lucinda had some interesting deposits in her checking account that seemed to come out of nowhere, so we've been wondering if she was stealing from the organization," said Bernard. "You wouldn't happen to know anything, would you?"

"Wow..." said Fletcher. "Well—like I said, the books haven't been waving any red flags at me. If they were, I'd go right to Steve—discreetly, of course…So you think money has something to do with her death?"

"Yeah, we do," said Bernard. "Well, if you think of anything," he added, handing one of his business cards to Fletcher, "you let us know."

"Like I said, I didn't know her very well, but if I do think of anything, I'll call you."

"All right," said Lupo. "You have a nice day, Mr. Fletcher."

"You, too."

***DOINK!DOINK!***

The Manhattan District Attorney's Office

One Hogan Place Centre Street

Manhattan, New York

Tuesday December 15

Mike, Connie, Jack, Lupo, and Bernard were all gathered in Mike's office. Lupo and Bernard were telling the three attorneys all about their visit to That's a Wrap Theatre Company.

"…and his alibi is that he was home alone in bed when it happened," Lupo was saying of Fletcher. "Obviously, there's no one to confirm or deny that. And about the money and the organization's books, either he's lying, or Connie's wrong."

"He's lying," Mike said without hesitation.

Connie gave him a brief, grateful smile.

"So Mr. Cochran's in the clear. What about the third male employee—the marketer?" said Jack.

"At home in bed—his boyfriend can back him up, he said," Bernard replied.

"So his alibi's essentially as strong as Mr. Fletcher's," said Jack. "Do we have anything solid we can use to bury either one of them?"

"There's the organization's books," said Mike. "If we subpoena them and have a forensic accountant go over them, we'll know whether or not Fletcher knew Lucinda was stealing."

"_If_ she was stealing," said Jack.

"There are also those prints CSU lifted from the window sill in Lucinda's apartment—the ones that aren't in the system," said Connie.

"Who wants to play connect the dots?" Bernard said to Lupo.

***DOINK!DOINK!***

N.Y.P.D. 27th Precinct

One Police Plaza

Manhattan, New York

Thursday December 17

"I'm telling you, I did not kill Lucinda, I swear to you!" said Craig Harris, the marketer.

"I agree, Harris," Derek Fletcher said coldly. "This isn't very dignified at all. 'Well, we have no idea who killed Lucinda Carlisle, so we'll just go after two guys who worked with her, even though they barely knew her and didn't kill her'!"

"All right. Just give us your prints, and we'll get this all cleared up," said Lupo.

"It won't hurt a bit, we promise," Bernard snarked.

A CSU tech was there at the precinct, all set up to take fingerprints.

"Honey, just do it," said Harris' boyfriend. "Then they'll know you didn't kill Lucinda, and they'll know I didn't lie for you."

"You're right, you're right," Harris agreed.

He then sat down and allowed the CSU tech to take his fingerprints.

"Your turn, Mr. Fletcher," said Bernard.

Fletcher sat down and let the CSU tech take his fingerprints.


	8. Chapter 8: Bargaining in the Big House

Chapter Eight: Bargaining in the Big House

The Manhattan District Attorney's Office

One Hogan Place Centre Street

Manhattan, New York

Wednesday January 6

"…and we will thus _prove_ that Dalton Roderick is a murderer."

Mike recited his opening argument for an upcoming trial in front of Connie, hoping for her feedback.

"What do you think?" he then asked her.

"I think it's great," Connie said, impressed.

"Really?" Mike said, sounding relieved. "Good! It's just that this is going to be a tough trial, and I don't feel like that opening argument is one of my better ones."

Connie smiled warmly.

"Mike—it's perfect," she said kindly.

"You think so?" Mike asked, lighting up.

"I do," Connie said, smiling again.

"Okay, then I'll leave it as is," Mike said with a smile. "So I've been meaning to ask you, Connie—would you like to give the summation?"

"Absolutely," Connie said warmly.

Mike was about to ask her if she'd like to have coffee with him on Saturday, so they could maybe spend time together without talking about work. However, before he could say a word, Connie's phone rang.

"Hello?" she answered. "Hi…Really?...Great…Fantastic…All right, Mike and I will take it from here. Pick him up…Thanks…'Bye."

"What's going on?" Mike asked.

"That was Bernard," Connie replied. "The CSU reports are in. The mystery prints on Lucinda's window sill belong to Derek Fletcher."

***DOINK!DOINK!***

Rikers Island Correctional Facility

Friday January 29

Mike and Connie were meeting with Derek Fletcher and his attorney, Bonnie Chapman, in Fletcher's cell.

"Now, I've heard about you and your ego trips, Cutter, so just spare us, and get to the point," Chapman said.

"Well, we didn't call this meeting to exchange petty insults, so why don't you just be quiet and listen?" Connie said coldly.

Mike kept his prosecutor game face perfectly in tact, but he was smiling on the inside at those words. He couldn't recall ever working with someone who had his back like Connie did.

"Now, CSU lifted a set of prints from Lucinda's window sill," Connie said. "Prints that are a thirteen point match to your client's. Mr. Fletcher, do you care to explain why you were in Lucinda's apartment?"

"So you can place my client in Mrs. Carlisle's apartment. That doesn't mean he killed her," Chapman said icily.

"Well, what other reason did he have for being there?" Mike challenged. "As he told the police, he didn't know Lucinda Carlisle very well. And then there are Mrs. Carlisle's phone records, which the police looked over again," Mike went on, referencing Lucinda's phone records, which Connie had handed to him. "According to them, Mrs. Carlisle and your client enjoyed calling each other—up until the day before she was murdered. Or is that just a part of their relationship as total strangers?"

"Do you have anything that _isn't_ circumstantial?" Chapman asked haughtily.

"Well, funny you should ask because we're just getting to the fun part," Mike said in false pleasantness, a sarcastic smile on his face.

"Mr. Fletcher, your boss told the police that That's a Wrap has been having financial problems. You agreed. Now, Lucinda had some suspicious-looking cash deposits in her checking account. We couldn't figure out where they came from, and it made me wonder if Lucinda was stealing from the company. That's why Detectives Lupo and Bernard asked you if anything in the books seemed off," said Connie. "You lied and said 'no'. Now here's where it gets even more interesting: we subpoenaed the financial records you were keeping and had them examined by a forensic accountant. You and Lucinda defrauded the organization for months. The two of you embezzled over seven thousand dollars."

"Well, hmm, I wonder why the organization was having financial problems?" Mike chimed in. "So why'd you kill her, Mr. Fletcher?"

"Were you helping her and didn't want to anymore, so she threatened you?" Connie surmised.

"Okay, okay, all right!" Fletcher suddenly burst out. "All right. Just stop, I'll explain everything."

"Stop right there, Derek. Don't say another word," Chapman ordered. She then turned to Mike and Connie. "If there's a deal on the table, then he'll talk."

"Oh, I'll do you one better: if he talks, then there'll be a deal on the table," Mike countered.

Connie felt a surge of affection towards Mike at those words. She loved his wit.

"You think you're calling all the shots here?" Chapman asked coldly.

Mike raised an eyebrow.

"You think _you_ are?" he asked.

"What are you expecting to get out of this meeting, Ms. Chapman?" Connie inquired, taking charge of the conversation.

"A deal, obviously!" said Chapman. "No, I thought we'd all just sit here and stare at each other. Did you go to law school?" she added with vitriol.

"That's it!" Mike snapped. "We'll see you at trial!"

"Mike, don't," Connie said, resting her hand on his arm gently to calm him down.

Mike heeded her and then said more calmly, yet coldly, "He tells us everything, or there's no deal."

"Okay, then I'll do that," Fletcher spoke up. He sighed and then said, "Yes, I did it. I'm responsible. I killed Lucinda. The bitch was blackmailing me."

"Blackmailing you?" Mike said skeptically.

"Yes," said Fletcher. "Okay, here's how it all started: Back in July, I lost a poker game, all right? And since I make shit for a salary, I didn't know how else I was going to pay the debt. So I decided to scam some money from the company and falsify the records. Everything was going great at first. The recession screwed the nonprofit sector hard, anyway, so it was easy just to blame it on that if anyone got suspicious. I should never have trusted that bitch—ever. But I was an idiot, and I did.

"Anyway, so back in June, Lucinda got us awarded this grant, which required cost sharing. Cost sharing essentially means we pay one half for a project, and the grantor pays the other half. Lucinda came around often, asking me how things were going with it—like were the payments coming in on time, was I billing them on time, all this shit—like I didn't know what the fuck I was doing…

"Anyway, I watched the books like a hawk. I had to be diligent about what I was doing—couldn't risk anyone getting suspicious. So in August, Lucinda asked me yet again how I was doing handling the grant money. She came into my office one day and asked, like she always did. I told her to be patient because I was in the middle of something, which I was, so she left. However, a couple hours later, I enter my office after a bathroom break, only to find her standing there, at my desk, flipping through the books!

"I asked her what the hell she thought she was doing, and she said she was just checking on the grant money—again, like I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. I said, 'I told you I'd get to you. Be patient. Now kindly get out of my office and go focus on your own job'. That got rid of her—or so I thought. The next day after work, she comes up to me in the parking lot as I was about to get in my car and says she wants to talk to me and to meet her at the bar down the street from here. She offered to buy me a drink. I figured she was going to spend the entire time blathering on about the grant money, but I decided to meet her anyway because I was getting free alcohol out of it.

"So we meet up at the bar, and she gets our drinks, and I ask her what she wants. She said that the previous day, when I found her looking through the books, she thought I overreacted—that all she was doing was checking on the grant money, which wasn't a big deal. I said, 'Barging into someone's office and going through their stuff isn't a big deal?' And then she said again that she thought I overreacted and she thought it was weird. She said anyone in the office should be able to see the statements I prepare, not just me. Then she said, 'I think there's something going on with you at work', and I said, 'What are you, a fucking shrink?' And then she says, 'All I wanted to do was see if we're getting our grant money on time, and you freaked out on me. That makes me think there's something you don't want me or anyone else to see. And now that I think of it, you hardly ever leave your office'. Nosy bitch. How'd she get her own work done if she was so fixated on what I was up to, you know? Damn…"

He shook his head.

"Keep talking," Mike ordered.

"So then I said, 'Look, I'm busy, and my job is stressful, all right? God'. But she just didn't know when to back off! She looks at me and asks, 'What're you hiding?' And I said, 'Who says I'm hiding anything? Have you got a paranoia problem?' I'm telling you, that bitch was way too clever and way too nosy for her own good. The next thing she said to me was, 'Oh my God—are you cooking the books?' I damn near choked on my drink. I didn't want to admit it to that nosy bitch, but I thought that if I denied it, she'd just keep harassing me. I didn't feel like I had a choice. But I did. I should've just told her she was delusional, but no, I had to cave like an idiot."

"So what did you say?" Mike asked.

"I said, 'I don't want to tell you a Goddamned thing, but I see I've got no choice. Knowing you, you won't back the hell off until you're satisfied'. So I explained my situation just like I did to you two. When I was done, I said, 'And now I suppose you're going to go to the board of directors and try to get me fired'. And what she said just completely blew my mind. She said, 'I _could_ do that, you're absolutely right. But I won't—under one condition'. And I said, 'And that is?' And she said, 'I want a cut of the money you're taking. I'm going through a divorce right now, and with what we make here, I can barely afford my legal fees. My attorney's one of the best, but he's expensive. Help me out, or I go to the board. It's that simple'. Like I said—the bitch was blackmailing me. The only reason I went along with it is because I was afraid of getting fired. At first we decided to split it fifty-fifty—but after a while, the bitch got greedy. She started demanding more and more money from me and repeating her threat to go to the board if I didn't go along with her. She kept bitching about her high legal fees and spewing that threat to rat me out until I just couldn't take it anymore. The fifty-fifty split had become eighty-twenty, and the scam was my idea! The bitch fucking took advantage of me and extorted me, and I was sick of it. I finally decided that I was going to stand up to her and make her see reason—tell her she wasn't going to push me around anymore. So I called her and told her I needed to talk to her. She said we could meet at her apartment, so no one would have reason to suspect anything.

"So I get there at night, and she lets me in, and just the _sight_ of her pissed me the hell off. I straight up told her that I was sick of her shit. The whole thing was my idea, yet she'd been taking advantage of me, dominating me, and threatening me for months. That's what I told her. We argued, and it got heated. I don't remember everything that was said, but I do remember some. She said, 'You _will_ give me what I want, or I will go to the board! How many times do I have to tell you that?' I couldn't believe her! So I said, 'You stupid bitch! You turn me in, and it's your ass, too!' And then she said, 'The hell it is! I'm not the one who's been cooking the books, pal, that's you. They have no evidence against me but your word!' _God_ that made me angry. I mean, where the fuck did she get off talking to me like that? Yeah, because she was completely blameless! So then I said, 'What about your bank statements?' And, of course, I was right about that, wasn't I? You guys just said her bank records are what made you suspicious."

"So then what happened?" Mike said brusquely, barely letting Fletcher finish his sentence.

"So then she said, 'Oh please, that money could've come from anywhere. Face it—unless you give me what I want, the only one who's screwed here is you!' And then I just…lost it. I felt this huge surge of anger, and I lost it. Something inside me just snapped. I was irate, and I felt cornered and controlled and used—and there she stood just mocking me, being so smug and self-assured. I hated her. I hated everything about her. She made me so fucking angry, so I lashed out. Just…God, once I grabbed a hold of her neck and started squeezing, I just couldn't stop. I just couldn't stop. She just made me so fucking angry, and she'd been using and controlling me for months, and I was sick of it. She was ruining my life!"

"You manhandled her so roughly that you broke a bone in her neck!" Mike snapped.

"So then what did you do?" Connie said sternly.

"When I realized she was…gone, I—I panicked, so I left her on the couch. I knew I had to get out, and on some crazy impulse, I went over to her window. I saw the fire escape, so I opened the window and climbed out and then used the fire escape to get the hell out of there as fast as I could. And the rest, they say, is history."

"All right, Cutter—he spilled his guts, now what're you offering?" Chapman spoke up impatiently.

"Twenty to life, murder two and embezzlement, to run concurrently," Mike said.

"Murder two? I say man one! You heard him—he lost his temper, he snapped! He didn't mean to kill her," Chapman protested. "Man one and embezzlement, to run concurrently, twenty to twenty-five."

"Did you read the M.E.'s report? He strangled Lucinda so violently that he broke a bone in her neck!" Connie said severely.

"What my partner means is 'no deal'," Mike said with a sarcastic smile. "Twenty to life, murder two and embezzlement, to run concurrently. Parole is an option. That's our offer. Mr. Fletcher has until the end of the business day tomorrow to make up his mind. And, obviously, it's worth noting that a judge may not be so generous."

He gave another sarcastic smile and then looked at Connie as a way of asking her if she was ready to leave.

She nodded at him, and the two of them arose from the table.

"So you'll be in touch, then," Mike said to Chapman.

He gave one last sarcastic smile and then signaled the guard that he and Connie were ready to leave.

As the two of them walked out to Mike's car—

"Hey," Connie spoke up.

Mike's stopped walking and turned to face her, his expression soft.

"I don't approve of you trying to throw the plea deal to do so, but I know what you were trying to do. You were trying to defend me after Chapman insulted me. You didn't go about it the right way, but your heart was in the right place. It always is…Mike, thank you," Connie said warmly.

"You're welcome," Mike said softly.

"Well—" Connie then said, breaking their eye contact, "we should get back to work…"

"Right," Mike muttered.

With that, he unlocked his car, he and Connie got in, and he drove them back to the D.A.'s office.


	9. Chapter 9: Closed Cases and Chemistry

***DOINK!DOINK!***

Chapter Nine: Closed Cases and Chemistry

The Manhattan District Attorney's Office

One Hogan Place Centre Street

Manhattan, New York

Monday February 1

Connie entered Jack's office.

"Good morning!" she said kindly.

"Good morning!" Jack returned good-naturedly. "How are the appeals going?"

"Well, we're trying to get through them as efficiently as possible," Connie replied. "And I have to say—the interns have been very helpful to us."

"Oh good!" said Jack.

"Well, it may be tedious, but I could care less," Connie replied. "We're doing the right thing calling into question all of Woll's convictions. Who knows how many of them he obtained because he had someone killed?"

"You're damn right," Jack approved. "That's the spirit I want to see around here. You are absolutely right, Connie."

"Thanks, Jack," Connie said with an appreciative smile.

She then sighed.

"I still can't believe that son-of-a-bitch," she then said of Marcus Woll. "I wonder how he got through law school? Cheating? Probably. He probably cheated his way through the Bar exam, as well. He's a fake. He's a complete fake. Everything about him is either tainted or a lie. I worked as hard as I could to get where I am. I never cheated, and I _certainly_ never killed anyone."

She shook her head.

"Mike would never do any of that," she said softly.

After a pause, she looked up at Jack, who had one eyebrow raised.

He was fighting the temptation to smile.

"And neither would you," Connie added quickly. "You definitely wouldn't do that…"

There came another pause.

Then—

"Well—on that note, I'd better get to work," Connie said awkwardly.

"How's the Carlisle case been going?" Jack then asked her, still looking like he wanted to smile.

Connie then told Jack all about her and Mike's meeting with Fletcher and Chapman at Rikers.

"So you're still waiting to hear back from Fletcher's attorney?" said Jack.

"Right," said Connie.

"Bonnie Chapman," Jack said.

"Is a piece of work?" offered a male voice Connie knew by heart.

She turned to see Mike standing in Jack's doorway. She smiled at him, and when he smiled at her, she really hoped she wasn't blushing.

"Actually, yes," said Jack. "But according to Connie, the two of you handled her well."

"I'd like to think we did," said Mike. "Anyway, I didn't mean to interrupt if you two were having a conversation," he added to Connie.

"No, it's all right," Connie said kindly. "Jack now knows we're waiting to hear from Chapman."

"Okay, great!" said Mike.

"We'll keep you posted," Connie said to Jack.

"Great," Jack said, no longer able to keep from smiling.

Connie couldn't look at him as she and Mike left his office for Mike's.

Once they were there—

"By the way—good morning," Mike said sweetly.

"Good morning," Connie returned warmly.

"I, um—I went and got us coffee," Mike said, going over to his desk where two drinks from Starbucks rested in a drink carrier.

"I got my favorite," he said, "and—" he added, removing from the carrier the drink labeled 'grande, nonfat, raspberry mocha' and handing it to her, "your favorite."

Connie gave him the smile she saved just for him as she took her drink.

"Thank you, Mike," she said warmly.

"You're welcome," Mike said sweetly, his heart pounding as she smiled at him.

They looked at each other for a moment.

Then—

Connie did something she'd never done before and reached up and rested her free hand against his face.

Mike then gently rested his hands on the sides of her face and leaned in closer to her so that his forehead touched hers.

Connie closed her eyes, relishing his close proximity.

Mike really wanted to kiss her.

He was just making the move, when suddenly, his Blackberry started ringing.

_Son-of-a-bitch, _he thought, as the two of them were forced to end their moment.

Connie had opened her eyes and drawn back from him.

"I'd better get that," Mike said quietly.

"Yeah," Connie said softly, just as disappointed as he was.

Mike went over to his desk and took the call.

"Michael Cutter…All right, good. We'll get the paperwork to you before the end of the workday, and we'll be in touch about the allocution…Goodbye," he said.

"What's up?" Connie said.

"That was Chapman. Fletcher's taking our deal," Mike said, sounding pleased.

"Oh good!" Connie said.

"Yeah!"

"So…I was thinking more trial prep for the Roderick case," said Connie, "and then some work on the appeals. How about you? That sound good or…?"

"Yeah, I agree," Mike said. "But I was also thinking something else…"

"What's that?" Connie asked.

"I—I was wondering, if you aren't busy this Saturday, maybe you'd like to have coffee with me. We could just talk—and not about work, just…whatever you want…if you want to…" Mike said, his blue eyes alight with hope.

Connie melted. The way he spoke, his expression, and the look in his eyes were so endearing to her.

She smiled.

"I would love to, Mike," she said.

Mike couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Really?" he asked.

"Yeah!" Connie said, her smile broadening.

Mike smiled, his dimples on full display.

"We'll talk more about it after work, okay?" Connie said.

"Okay, yeah," said Mike.

They looked at each other for a moment.

"Well—guess we'd better go update Jack, then," Connie said, trying without luck to keep from smiling.

"Yeah," Mike agreed, also unable to suppress a smile.

They exchanged glances one more time, and then walked to Jack's office together.


End file.
